


A Cracked Engine Block

by callmedok



Category: Brütal Legend
Genre: Character Development, Growing Old, Implied Sexual Content, Improving Relationship, M/M, Making Up, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 21:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16961778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmedok/pseuds/callmedok
Summary: Kill Master wakes up in Fire Baron's bed (again), and wants an answer on what the hell they are to each other.Modern AU, unhealthy relationship implications but striving to improve by the end.





	A Cracked Engine Block

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt 13. "Help me." Adjusted a little for flow of things, but otherwise pretty straight-forward. Posting this cause I promised someone gay for Brütal Legend, so here it is! Has unhealthy relationship implications, a on-again off-again that's been not great but they finally want to try and improve it.
> 
> FB is Robin, KM is Damian, cause it's just easier my dudes.
> 
> Title is from Fault Lines by the Mountain Goats.

When he wakes up his knee hurts, there’s a bite throbbing dully near his collar bone, and morning breath and beer don’t mix for a damn reason. The part of the pillow he can see out of the corner of his eye is a familiar faded blue, the walls a dirty white after years of living there, and he snorts at the creased Judas Priest poster he can see the bottom edge of. 

Of fucking course.

He can never stay away from him too long. Inevitable, like the sky being blue and the way his bass strap cuts into the back of his neck. Almost twenty years in this asshole’s orbit, and no matter how many times both of them tried other people it never lasted long.

There’s an arm around his waist, a forehead pressed against his shoulder, and he lets out a soft huff. Tries to sit up without disturbing the other man, but fails as there’s a noise of protest, the arm tightening around his waist. Every action so familiar, so right, it’s like a pit opening up in his stomach. His voice is raspy and worn from last night, when he says to the dead silence of the room “We can’t keep doin’ this, Robin.”

“You keep coming back though,” Robin says, muffled against his back, warm and fond even with a rough edge, and it _hurts_. No matter how many times he’s found someone else, they’ve never managed to sound like that. Never managed to make him slow down with a damn grin, make him want to linger with a hand on his arm.

(Robin had teased him last night about the gray in his hair, following the streak near his temple with a thumb, and said it made him look distinguished. He just felt fucking old, the first time he caught it in his reflection.)

He pushes the arm off before sitting up, holding back a wince as his knee twinges. Levels Robin his best serious look, undercut by bloodshot eyes and dark smudges under them that have built up after weeks of rough sleep. Hell, they might’ve been the only reason Robin even approached him last night after the gig.

“Yeah, but…we’re gettin’ old. Every fuckin’ time we hook up, we can’t try an’ break the bed. My hip will go first,” He says bluntly, and wishes-

Wishes he had his sunglasses, to make a point. Wishes that they were anywhere fucking else for this, rather than in a bedroom he knows as well as his own. Wishes Robin was wearing his aviators, because god damn it his heart is doing stupid things over the way the other man’s looking at him. A bit fondly, a bit sadly, and it’s a hell of a mix.

“…What are we supposed to do then?” Robin eventually asks, resting a hand over his on top of the blankets. His voice is so damned soft, like the man doesn’t scream his head off half the time when he’s on-stage, and a laugh escapes more like a chuff. A partial laugh as he ducks his head, and can’t bring himself to meet Robin’s eyes again as he presses the heel of his palm against his eye.

“Fuck if I know. Eddie’s getting’ married, Ironheade’s going places, an’ what do we got? Seriously, sweetheart, what are we even doing,” he replies, and every word feels like ripping out teeth. For once digging into the heart of things, rather than letting it fester in words unsaid. Twenty years is a long fucking time to dance around things, and there comes a time when things have to break.

Here’s his breaking point, waking up in Robin’s bed with hurts that weren’t there years before, gray he couldn’t hide. Wondering if just by bringing this up, he’s fucked up the one relationship he’s managed to keep all this time.

“…To be honest, Dames? Fuck if I know.” Robin replies, straightforward and easy as ever, sitting up to lean against him, and he laughs a little helplessly. “But,” Robin continues, drawing out the word as he wraps an arm around his waist, “I wouldn’t be against, y’know. You, helpin’ me. Figure out all this shit, when we’re not ready to fall over.”

And everything’s quiet for a moment, before he finally says “I’d like that.”

(Cracks that’ve been there from the start can’t be smoothed over in a day, but it’s a start.)


End file.
